Vangelis had read, had searched, had asked. He had even reached the point—his finger hovering over the “Order” button—to almost buy a placard with his work printed on it. He didn’t want to impose anything on anyone, least of all Dimitris. He simply wanted to show him an alternative, something that might help. He presented it with care, with delicacy, with love. Not as a solution, not as an ultimatum, but as a suggestion—a game. That’s just how Vangelis is.
And Dimitris, without even lifting his eyes from his phone, simply said, dryly, “No, thank you.”
Vangelis froze; the warmth of his gesture met with cold indifference. It wasn’t the rejection that hurt... It was the indifference toward the intention, and the use of that impersonal urban politeness. Like opening your heart and the other person tossing in recycling cans—cleaned and grease-free—because they care.
In the courtyard with the lemon trees and the cat lost in her own beautiful morning world, the table—surely witness to dozens of similar stories—seems saddened, but there’s nothing it can do. Only hold the reflection of the moment, until it’s wiped away by the white whirlwind of Windex.
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